


What is love?

by Hanajimasama, Jolien



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Love, Muse - Freeform, What is love, struggling artist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanajimasama/pseuds/Hanajimasama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: Vasquez struggles with creating a piece of art for an upcoming exhibition. He finds his muse in an unlikely place.





	What is love?

**Author's Note:**

> Amazing art by Jolien

“Why? _ Why? _ This should be an easy subject!” Vasquez stared at his sketch pad. Everything he drew was flat and boring, without any heart. “It’s shit.” He threw the pad across his room in despair. An offer by Goodnight Robicheaux, owner of one of the most renowned art galleries in New York, would mean a lot to his career; he was hosting an exhibition to help artists get their work seen. It had a theme: Love. 

“Why is this shit?!” He groaned loudly, slamming his hands on the table in frustration, his head resting in his hands. He grumbled as a knock came from the door. “what?”

“Is everything alright?” His roommate Red Harvest looked around the door. “Artist’s block?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Vasquez sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing I do is good. It just doesn’t sing?”

Red hummed and scratched his jaw “Why don’t you go out of town for a bit? See the country? There’s a nice place I went to that’s quiet and surrounded by nature.”

Of course Red would suggest that – he was a freelance nature and wildlife photographer. “How will that help?”

“A new place can bring new inspiration. By the looks of your study, I’d say you’re a little bit stressed? Getting out of the city will help.” Red laughed “I’ll call the place if you like.”

“Thanks, Red.” Vasquez smiled weakly, he was tired. But he still had time until the exhibition. Maybe a little vacation would help. 

  
-

_ Rose Creek. _

He’d honestly never even heard of it but here it was, right in the middle of nowhere. It was a small town situated near a tree lined river, surrounded by fields of grass where horses roamed. It was a seemingly quiet and close knit community with lots of little locally owned stores, no big corporate stores in sight. 

“Feels like a horror movie- guess I’m going to be the next victim,” Vasquez chuckled darkly to himself. Just past the town was a forest which sat at the bottom of a mountain and that was his destination. 

The hum of the car stopped and Vasquez heard nothing, even as he opened the car door. The smell of country air filled his nose and the constant hustle and bustle of the city was no more. It was quiet, peaceful -- and utterly suffocating. How would this help him paint?

He popped the trunk of his car and grabbed his bag: he’d collect his art supplies after he’d checked in. 

The retreat Red Harvest recommended was just a little lodge on the outskirts of a small town; according to Red it could only house a few people at a time. He pushed the sturdy wooden door open. The hall was so welcoming, like a traditional log cabin, a thick red carpet making it feel even more wholesome. A stocky old man with an impressive beard appeared from the end of the corridor, 

“Oh, good afternoon!” he grinned, approaching with a hand extended. “You must be Vasquez. It's a pleasure to meet you, son -- I’m Jack, the owner of this little lodge. Let’s get you checked in and then I’ll show you to your room.”

Vasquez followed the owner through the narrow corridor and up a flight of stairs. “Here we are.” Jack fumbled with the key and pushed open the door. “Bathroom is in here and there a little kettle over there and-”

Vasquez zoned out and looked around the room: it wasn’t huge but not small either. A good size. One comfy looking bed complete with rustic wooden frame, a large window, a simple table pushed against the far wall which housed a kettle, cup and some sachets of tea and coffee, while under the window was another table, round with two wooden chairs. 

“If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.” Jack’s voice snapped him out of the inspection. 

“Si, thank you.” Jack smiled setting the keys down on the table. Jack was strange to be around -- he was just so friendly and welcoming, and even though Vasquez had only just met him, it seemed as though he had known him a lot longer than that.

-

Day one in the forest. Vasquez had slept in a little longer that normal, with the lack of rush hour traffic to wake him. Jack had woken him with a delicious breakfast and once he was awake and fed, it was time to draw. The clock seemed to skip several hours until Vasquez looked up from his sketchpad.

Still nothing. Being out of the city just wasn’t helping. Eventually Vasquez found himself dozing off in the warmth of the sun beaming in from his window. 

He jumped awake again as his bag rolled off his bed. “What-” he grumbled. Then his eye fell on his sketchbook and he saw several childish doodles. A massive phallus which would have made Vasquez snort with laughter if it wasn’t for the poor excuse of what he assumed was a horse -- it had a round fat body, stick legs and a long neck rivalling a giraffe “I didn’t-“ the more he stared at the horse the more confusion set in, “I certainly hope I didn’t do that- I should know what a horse looks like.” 

Feeling no inspiration from the confines of his room, Vasquez decided to take a walk. Grabbing a smaller sketch pad and shoving it into this satchel, he headed out into the wilderness, hoping inspiration would jump out at him like a deer in headlights.

-

Later that evening Vasquez was woken by a rattling of his door handle. Swearing, he clambered out of bed and unlocked the door. “Listen, you-” he began, but to his surprise he was confronted with an empty corridor. He stepped out of his room to check, but there was no one there. Scratching his head Vasquez backed back into his room, sticking his head out one last time just to make sure, then slowly closed the door, locking it and testing the handle to make sure it was indeed locked. 

“I must be losing it-” He turned to go back to bed and froze: someone was standing at his desk hunched over his drawing. “Hey!” he exclaimed. The figure stopped but made no effort to face him. “Who are you?” he demanded, “and how did you get in here?” Vasquez closed the gap between them, how had someone got past him? “Hey!?”

This time the figure straightened up and turned to him. Basking the moonlight that crept in through the gap in the curtain was a man, around Vasquez’ height but broader, his eyes green as the meadows. “You goin’ to answer me?” The figure smirked -- and vanished before his eyes. 

“What just happened?” Vasquez was rooted to the spot: there had been someone in his room, then they just vanished, disappeared right in front of him. “I’m just tired- si. Tired.” Slowly he shuffled to his bed and sat down on the edge of it, still staring at the desk. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep but the sun creeping through the curtain was what awoke him. He rolled over grumbling, one arm across his eyes. He felt so disjointed after such a strange night’s sleep. His head lolled to the side towards the desk. _ Such a weird dream. Ghosts? _

“Stupid,” he yawned, willing himself upright and letting the covers pool at his waist. “Just a dream.” He swung his legs out of bed, setting his feet on the soft carpet and crossed the room. He frowned as he noticed the sketchpad was laid open, he hadn’t left it like that or so he recalled. The page it was open on contained the same poorly drawn horse as before along with other questionable farm yard animals. Flipping through the pages, terrible doodles filled at least five or six of the pages, front and back, all containing more childish drawings of a penis and on one page scribbled in the corner was a name. He traced it with a finger. “F..Faraday?” 

_ Does that mean it wasn’t a dream? _

Another strangely placid morning passed by. Vasquez found himself once again sat at the little table in his room pages of paper strewn around him, his hand threading through his thick hair, tugging his scalp in frustration. His pencil tapped another blank page impatiently. He was trying to sketch the man he’d seen in his room last night, but nothing he drew looked right. Drawing from such a strange encounter was difficult. He set his pencil down and leaned back in the chair, rocking it onto two legs. “Who are you?” he mused.. 

“Vasquez! I made some lunch!” came Jack’s voice from the hall. The other couple had gone home earlier this morning and Red wasn’t lying when he said it was a homely place; Jack treated everyone like family. Letting the chair settle back onto four legs amid the mess, Vasquez headed out of his room, still trying to picture the man’s face clearly. 

The aroma of a hearty stew filled the dining area. In the time Vasquez had been here he was certain he had packed on a few pounds from Jack’s large portion sizes -- it reminded him of his abuelita who fed him as though he’d never eaten a meal in his life. As he set his hand on the back of a chair, a photo caught his eye on a cabinet to his left. 

iI a simple oval golden coloured frame was a picture of a man,standing outside the lodge grinning like a fool, with messy mousy blonde hair which crept out from under a brown leather cowboy hat, a grey polo shirt covered in mud and the same meadow green eyes he saw last night. Vasquez picked up the photo to get a better look at it, his mouth dry.. 

_ It was him. The man he’d seen. _

“Oh there you are, son.” Jack entered the room with a huge bowl of stew and potatoes. 

“Jack. This hombre.’ Vasquez turned to him, holding out the photograph, questions swirling in his mind. “Who is he? Is he staying here?”

“He used to.” Jack took the picture from him with a sorrowful smile, looked at the man with loving but sad eyes. 

“Used to? But I saw him-”

Jack tensed, setting the picture down carefully in its place. “That’s not possible. Joshua d- , that it, he passed a few years ago now.” 

“Oh. Sorry. I- but- Thank you for the food.” Vasquez took his spot at the table and tucked in to his mountain of food. Jack kept looking over at the picture during the meal. “Jack, do you know who Faraday is?” 

Jack turned to face him with surprised. “That is Joshua’s family.” Vasquez looked for another answer, he was very curious. “Joshua used to live here.”

“He’s not your son?” 

Jack shook his head. “It was a complicated situation.” His head bowed slightly. “It was unfortunate and I- well I miss him dearly,” and that was all Jack seemed to be willing to say on the matter of Joshua Faraday. 

This man was clearly a sensitive issue to Jack, but now he was plagued with more questions. How did Faraday die?

After lunch, Vasquez headed back up to his room with a clearer image in his head. He couldn’t very well ask Jack to borrow the photo since it meant so much to him. Instead he set to clearing the floor of discarded pieces of paper, opened the window to let in a little fresh air, turned to a clean page, sharpened his pencil over the bin and sat down to draw. 

_ This isn’t what I should be drawing at all, but I can’t get him out of my head. _

The pencil moved across the paper almost continuously for what felt like hours. Several pages were full by the time Vasquez managed to produce something he was somewhat proud of. He was sure some things were still a little off -- he’d need to look at the photo again. Exhausted from his burst of creativity he leant back in his chair, arms folded across his chest and dozed off. 

“_ Ain’t bad but, I improved it.” _

Vasquez snorted as he jolted awake. A figure was leaning over the table 

“_ You didn’t quite capture my dashing good looks.” _

Vasquez bolted up, sending the chair crashing to the floor. “Faraday? Joshua?” he asked, taking a step back from the table. It was now that Vasquez noticed the clothes he wore were the same as the photo, leaving out the cowboy hat. It reminded him of his own culture, we remember them how they were in life, so it would make sense why Faraday was wearing the clothes in that photo, they must have been his favourite things. Faraday looked at him in surprise and amusement. 

  


_ “Both is right.” _

Vasquez hummed and walked over to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open. He grabbed a cigarette from his jacket pocket and was just about to light it

“_ Jack doesn’t allow smoking indoors,” _ Faraday warned “ _ Always clipped me around the ear when I sparked one.” _He chuckled, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Vasquez pocketed the cigarette and looked out the window. “How- why are you here?” he asked, turning back to glance at his spectral roommate.

“_ I don’t know,” _ Faraday replied flatly “ _ I woke up and here I was. Cursed to roam these halls forever I suppose.” _

-

It had been almost a week since he arrived here and still no closer to finding his inspiration for art; the more he thought the less he really understood himself and even less about Faraday. Faraday, the mysterious pain-in-the-ass ghost that was graffitiing his drawings.

Nothing made sense anymore. 

Vasquez sat staring at the ceiling. Now the mysterious ghost had been identified he thought he could get back to his work, but it was not so easy. Love was a stupid topic. Love could be portrayed in so many ways, but he needed an individual vision to express it in his own way. 

As he sat and tried to spur his mind for ideas, a strange cold air glided over his face and he opened his eyes to see Faraday grinning down at him.

“_ Won’t get anything done like that,” _he teased. 

“Nothing I draw is any good.” At first it had felt strange talking to a ghost but he’d become accustomed to Faraday’s presence. 

_“Sure it is,”_ Faraday objected, moving around the table to flick through the pages of the book until it lay open on several portrait heads of himself. “See you really captured my dashing good looks and my debonair smile.” Faraday stroked at his chin proudly. _“Can’t you use this? - what is it even for? You never said.”_

“No.” Vasquez reached forward to snatch the sketch pad away when he saw Faraday picking up a pencil. “It doesn’t fit the theme and it’s for an exhibition for upcoming artists.”

_ “What theme?” _

“Love.”

_“Well, women love me, look at this strong jaw,”_ Faraday laughed, taking a seat opposite Vasquez. “_Do you believe in love?”_

Vasquez opened his mouth several times to reply but couldn't find the words. Eventually he said, “I’m not so sure.”

The chair squeaked against the wooden floor as it was pushed back onto the two legs._ “Well, what do you love?”_

_ That sounded like it should be such a simple question. _ “My family, art-“

_ “Your girlfriend?” _Faraday asked, watching him with a fox-like grin and curious eyes.

“No. I had a boyfriend…” Vasquez mumbled into the hand that propped his head up at the desk. 

_“Oh.”_ Faraday vanished from his seat and appeared next to him, one hand leaning on the table, looking down at him with a stupid grin. “ _ What about me? Am I like a- what was it- a moose?” _

Vasquez snorted. “A Muse.”

_“That’s the one._” Faraday stared at him, clearly waiting for an answer. 

_ What about him? _His eyes traced the sketches in front of him and then slyly glanced up at Faraday. He was indeed handsome, tall and broad with a little stomach showing through the grey polo shirt he wore: a side effect of Jack’s large portions, Vasquez guessed. His eyes were a dull green, more faded than the bright colour he had seen in the photograph.

_ If he were alive – _ Vasquez stopped the thought in its tracks. “You’re not bad,” he stated flatly, closing the sketch pad, “but you’re not my type.” 

Faraday’s laugh made him jump. “Liar.” He stretched his arms above his head. _“Not your fault though. I’m just that good looking,_” he teased, turning to lean fully on the table until his head rested on his elbow. _“You’re not bad yourself,”_ he winked and the words made Vasquez’ ears burn horribly. 

“I can’t concentrate in here.” Vasquez grabbed his pencils and walked out the room. He marched down the corridor and quickly descended the stairs, almost colliding with Jack.

“Heading out?”

“Si, I can’t concentrate with Faraday pestering me.” As soon as the words were out, he cursed his quick mouth when he saw Jack’s shoulders slump. “Sorry- I-“

“It’s alright, son. Ain’t the first time someone told me about him,” Jack admitted sombrely. “I haven’t seen him myself but folks have told me they see him wandering around.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No. It wouldn’t do anyone good for me to wish him here, spirits need to move on, but I do often wonder why he’s here.”

“Apparently to graffiti my art.” Vasquez slowly opened his book and handed it to Jack. “Drew himself a moustache.” 

Jack’s eyes started to well up as he laughed through the tears. “Sounds like Joshua alright. He was like a son to me.” Jack flipped through the sketch pad and saw more drawings of Joshua, smiling fondly through his tears. “It was a few years ago now but it still hurts.” 

“Losing family is never easy,” Vasquez stated. “Did you want to talk about it? It might help.” 

Jack looked up from the sketch pad and nodded. “I’ll make us some coffee.” 

-

“I suppose the Lord brought Joshua and me together,” Jack started, cradling his cup. “I used to run this little place with my wife Edith until she passed -- it was hard to continue this alone because everything just reminded me of her. But then Joshua came into my life, and he was just as lost as I was. I bumped into him in the town a little ways from here; he had gotten into a fight and was stumbling around the streets drunk. I couldn’t leave him.” Jack stopped to take a sip of his coffee. “I learnt he didn’t have anywhere to go, he was just wandering around, so I let him stay here and he helped me run it, I’m not as spry as I used to be. And it was good company.” 

Jack sighed. “Though old habits die hard. Faraday would still go to town to drink and play cards. He rarely lost a game, but eventually his luck ran out. He tangled with the wrong group and they didn’t take kindly to losing.” Jack sniffled as he fought to keep his tears at bay. “They killed him. Shot him and left him to die in an alley. I wasn’t there for him. I couldn’t even bring the men responsible to justice.”

Vasquez could only sit and listen silently. This was a lot to take in and from Jack’s eyes and his cracking voice he could tell how difficult it was for Jack to retell. How horrible it must have been for him to wait patiently for Faraday to come home, only to have to identify his body instead. 

_ What was keeping Faraday here? The murder? The fact nobody was held accountable? That Jack yearned to see Faraday again to apologise? And yet Faraday appeared to everyone but Jack. Why? _

He still had so many questions.

-

Later that evening Vasquez returned to his room to try and work on his rough notes. None of it really stood out to him, he was still at a standstill. So he decided to ask Faraday about Jack whilst he lazily doodled his ghost roommate. 

_ “I can’t look at him. I failed him. I should have stopped.” _ Faraday explained from his spot on Vasquez’s bed where he lay with his back to Vasquez. _ “And look what happened, I caused him so much needless pain.” _

Vasquez looked up from his sketch. “You’re wrong. Jack loves you and doesn’t bear you any grudge. He just wishes he could have saved you, the way you saved him.”

Faraday rolled to face Vasquez. “I didn’t-“ 

“Si, you did,” Vasquez retorted, glancing back to his drawing. “You saved him from his loneliness, you became his family. He loved you like a son.” 

_ The love of a family, even after death has claimed them, is everlasting. That was it. Such an obvious form of love he’d forgotten about. _

“Yeah, well-“ Faraday’s answer faded into the background as Vasquez hunched over and started drawing quickly. He had to draw these ideas -- if he stopped he might never get those sparks of inspiration back. Vasquez wasn’t sure how long he had been sketching for but when he finally stopped his back cracked loudly from his hunched position. Sighing with relief Vasquez set his pencil down and sat up straight. “Finally an idea.” He looked around, but his room was strangely quiet. “Faraday?” he called quietly. 

_“Oh, now you want to talk. You were drawing like a man possessed,”_ Faraday teased, appearing to sit on the edge of the table. “What is that anyway?” he asked curiously.

Vasquez closed the book firmly. “It’s only a rough sketch. I’ll show you when it’s done.” He chuckled at Faraday’s childish pout. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being my muse. You reminded me of something I had long forgotten. I could hug you cabrón,” Vasquez laughed, leaning back in his chair, lifting his arms above his head and stretching after being hunched over for so long. 

Faraday appeared on his lap with a smug grin and wrapped his arms around Vasquez’s neck, his embrace cold. It was strange, but gingerly Vasquez moved his arms to try and return the gesture. It felt like he was holding air, but Faraday was here. He closed his eyes and embraced the strange moment, wishing he could hold him physically. _ But that would never be. _

Come morning, Vasquez was ready to head back. He had stayed longer than expected, a total of almost two weeks. He had his sketches and his ideas -- now what he needed was to paint and he barely had enough time until the exhibition. “You’ll come to the exhibition, won’t you?” he asked Jack as the old man helped him carry his things out to the car, unmoved from its spot during his stay. 

“Just call me and I’ll be there,” Jack smiled. “I look forward to seeing it. Place will seem empty without you.”

“Don’t worry -- I’ll come again. It’s kind of nice to be out of the city.” Vasquez climbed into his car, looking back in his mirror at the little lodge behind him. “See you soon, güero.” Vasquez smiled to himself as he fumbled for the radio for the long drive back to the city. 

-

A few weeks later the exhibition was upon them. Vasquez felt sick, so very sick. This was it, all his hard work had led up to this point but what if it wasn’t good enough. He fiddled with the Aztec coin around his neck in anxiety. He was dressed in dark jeans, a khaki shirt and a dark blue cardigan, looking presentable, or so he hoped. He waited at the front of the gallery for Jack to arrive. 

“Lord, you look nervous.” Vasquez jumped and whirled round to see Jack dressed in his Sunday best. He took his hat off. “I said I’d come. I can’t wait to see it.” 

“I’m scared to look at it in this big hall,” Vasquez admitted. “I haven’t seen it since I dropped it off. I was waiting for you.” 

Jack smiled warmly and placed a comforting hand on Vasquez’ shoulder. “Well then, what are we waiting for? Lead the way, son.” Vasquez led Jack through the gallery, stopping to glance at the other pieces on the way. “I can’t say I’ve ever been in an art gallery, I profess I’ve never had an eye for art.” 

Vasquez stopped breathing when he spotted the colours of his painting in the distance. 

“Well, this is it.” They stopped in front of the large portrait and Jack gasped audibly.

The painting was of Faraday. Face front, his eyes half opened showing off his emerald green eyes, his hand holding a full marigold flower as individual petals rained down behind him. The gold from the flowers seemed to radiate a soft warm glow. Faraday wasn’t stuck in some dark dreary limbo but surrounded by the warm love of his family. 

“Joshua-“ Jack sniffed. “This is...my boy..but…”

“You and Faraday reminded me of the love of a family. I grew fond of that graffitiing jerk during my stay. But you loved him like a son. I think I’d forgotten what family love can be.” Vasquez glanced at Jack who was struggling to keep his composure. “Cempasuchitl - marigolds - are important in Dia de los Muertos, they guide our loved ones to us. You know Faraday didn’t want to see you because he feels like he let you down. I- Jack?” 

Jack had completely succumbed to his grief and Vasquez moved to comfort him. “I am so sorry-“ 

“Don’t apologise, son, I’m just overwhelmed to see Joshua painted so serenely- like an angel. The last I saw of him was so awful and this is beautiful.” Vasquez hugged Jack. “I just wanted to see him, like everyone else did.”

Vasquez pulled away and reached into his satchel, pulling out a small frame picture. “I made this for you -- and I promised to show Faraday the picture when it was finished.” He handed it to Jack, triggering another wave of tears. “I think if you went home with this great huge piece it would just inflate his ego even more.” 

That made Jack laugh through his tears. “It would. This will go nicely next to the photo I have of him. Thank you, Alejandro, this was very thoughtful of you.” Jack smiled holding the frame carefully as though it might break at the slightest touch. 

Vasquez looked up at the portrait of Faraday surrounded by golden cempasuchitl, it seemed to give off a warm glow. Seeing his art hung on a fancy gallery wall made him happy but Jack’s reaction to the piece itself made him happier. He didn’t need his art to be mounted on a wall, he felt happier to know Jack was going to give it pride of place on his mantelpiece instead. 

“I think I’m done here,” Vasquez announced, turning to Jack “I think I need a vacation. Do you know anywhere? Somewhere in the woods maybe?” 

Jack’s eyes lit up and he nodded. “I think I know a place.” 

They laughed and head out of the gallery together, ready to head back to the warm little lodge nestled in the woods where someone was waiting impatiently for their return.

-

“This piece is stunning. You can really feel the love the artist felt for his subject. 

Yes, I think I’d like to make this a permanent part of the gallery. Who painted it? A. Vasquez? Contact him for me -- I’d like to talk to him.”

“Yes, Mr Robicheaux.” 


End file.
